With Pride
by Abi3
Summary: The sense of pride one girl feels as she watches her father survive.


I looked over at him and struggled to pull my eyes away and back to my work. He worked slowly, but efficiently with the skill of a craftsman in love with the materials and the machines. His left sleeve hung limply at his side as his other arm worked. His dark clothes hung from his thin shoulders made from the same dirty rags that clothed my body. His face was wrinkled, but not through age, but from years of happy laughter. Now those days were gone and left only the saddened shell of the man they had once filled. Through the dark and the noise I watched him and I realised that it wasn't through pity that I was watching, it was pride.  
  
Oskar took a deep breath and downed the last of his drink. From his office above the factory he had a view of all his workers below. The darkness masked their faces, but their bodies moved quickly and obediently between machines. As he looked around his mind struggled in the darkness. He didn't see these people as he was meant to. To him they were human, his workers, his people. They were making him money and that was all that mattered, surely. His eyes settled upon one man who was not working as quickly as the others. His back was bent and his body heaved with exhaustion. Everything about him, his walk, the way he turned his head spoke of age, weariness and determination. Oskar drew on his cigarette and sighed, he knew this was no way to run a business.  
  
My feet sank into the snow, the cold bit at every inch of my body and my flimsy clothes did little to protect me from the icy wind. My father walked beside me, slower and we made no effort to speak. There was nothing to say, nothing like this could ever be put into words. A hand grabbed my arm, pulling me towards the open train door. My father put up no fight, there was no fight left in him. Many faces looked down at me, gaunt, white, afraid and I stepped up knowing that I looked exactly the same because I could see in their faces how I felt inside, as close to death as I had ever been, afraid that this was all that was left of my life; the cold, the dark and the deathly trundle of the train beneath me. I could no longer see my father's face and the pain hit me that I hadn't even been able to say goodbye.  
  
Oskar looked down over the camp below him, the thousands of skeletons walking to and fro at the end of a gun. His people were among them and he wanted them back. His mind flickered to the cases at home, cases of money. He did not know what had changed, but it had and he surveyed the faces who were so real below him though it was as if he was looking upon a dream, a nightmare that he had no control over. He was Schindler and these were his Jews, he knew that had to mean something.  
  
I looked up; the monotonous rattle of the train slowed and was replaced with the piercing squeal of the brakes. The door was thrown open and orders were barked in my face, I had heard them all before and yet the anger in their voices still shocked me. I didn't think I would ever understand, why did they hate me? What had I done? What had any of us done? I pulled my aching muscles to the ground and my feet touched the snow beneath. For a moment my mind wandered to when I was a child and snow had brought me such joy, it had meant freedom, beauty, and happiness. Now I understood what it really meant; cold, loneliness, death. I glanced around, desperate to find the other train, desperate to find my father, but I found nothing but the darkness. I turned to follow the guards, the smell of smoke was impossible to escape.  
  
Oskar looked at the faces once more; men, women, children. He saw beauty in every one, but now it was time to leave. He had saved these people, but he had never thought of himself as a saviour, he had never sought glory. Guilt enveloped him, he had wanted money, but that didn't matter any more. Life, that was his glory, that was his payment, to see their faces. His workers, his people. his Jews.  
  
I took my fathers hand, a single tear rolled down my cheek. He seemed so small suddenly, so weak and yet stronger than any man: Oskar Schindler. He was man that had changed my life, changed the lives of so many. My father smiled and his smile spoke a thousand words. We looked upon this man, this man who had not hated us, not treated us like animals. He had saved all of us and yet he was reduced to so little. We knew he had to run, but it was with great sadness that we watched him turn towards the car. No one spoke, we all understood. As I watched him I realised, it wasn't through pity that I was watching. it was pride. 


End file.
